Simon fucking Riley. He was the kind of guy who walked into a party and made the air heavier just by being there. Hood pulled up, mask covering half his face usually, cigarette tucked behind his ear, dead eyes that always looked like he’d seen too much.

He was older than most of the undergrads. You’d say about 25. No one knew why really, just some rumor he had done a few years in the military.

You met him in a shared elective. Of course you did.

You were everything he wasn’t. At first. You showed up to class on time, turned in all your work early, had a clean reputation, and never went to parties. The professors loved you, the perfect student.

Which is why it made no sense why they kept pairing you with Simon. He never brought a notebook, never turned his homework in, always looked like he smoked right before walking in.

He’d stretch out in his chair, slouch down and never paid attention. He was a sight for sore eyes. Arms tatted, fingers bruised, rings adorned his hands, and truthfully, he was hot.

And he watched you too. Not like just any man. He watched like he wanted to find out what your bones sounded like when they cracked under his teeth.

You really should’ve walked away the first time he offered you a hit of whatever he had outside the library steps at 1 AM. But you didn’t. You took it. Stressed about an upcoming test. You coughed and Simon laughed like he hadn’t in years, at least you’ve never seen him laugh like that.

And you definitely should’ve walked away when he leaned in and took it away from you, “You don’t belong out here with me.”

All you said that night was, “Then stop looking at me like you want to ruin me.” And all he did after that was grin, finishing his smoke before leaving without another word.

He absolutely wanted to ruin you.

And that’s how it all started falling apart for you. One thing lead to another, getting paired up for projects meant you needed to interact more and more.

His apartment was always a mess, vinyls scattered on the floors, empty bottles on the coffee table, smoke curling in the room like ghosts.

But God. He kissed like he was angry. Had you like he was starving. He never said please but you never needed him to.

“You’re going to fail if you keep skipping class,” you mumbled, wrapped in one of his black shirts, legs over his lap.

Simon shrugged, lighting another smoke as he ran a hand up your thigh. It was the same argument you had with him every time.

He was a bad influence, because the last few weeks you had started skipping class too, started smoking with him and lounging around his apartment like you had nothing else to do, studying less, forgetting assignments, going to parties. You kept telling yourself you had it under control, that you were just there to watch him and help him, to keep him from falling deeper.

But you started to fall with him. Fast and reckless. And soon, it would be impossible to climb out of the hole you fell into with him.